Shot Down
by leppress
Summary: Does a Devil Hunter always get what he wants? Read and find out. Sorry no action here, but oh well.


Usual Author's notes: I don't own Dante. Don't sue me. However I do own the OC, don't use her.   
  
Rated PG13 for some slightly less than G-rated language. Thank you and goodnight!  
  
Rhiannon had come into the dingy little lounge in hopes of just being left alone so she could unwind from a rather trying day. She certainly wasn't dressed as any of the usual patrons of the place, and that was the main thing that had drawn her to it. She realized however, that she'd stand out from the crowd of blue collar workers, as one of the dreaded "suits". The executive  
  
class most of the people who worked below that so-called rank loved to hate, and avoided like the plague unless it was absolutely necessary to deal with them. It really wasn't her fault that she'd had ambition and drive to claw her way up from the lower eschalons toward her current standing. But the fact that her manner and dress alone kept any curious, or worse, interested males away from her, suited her just fine.  
  
She crossed her black stocking clad legs with the grace of a panther, stirred her drink; she'd ordered something stronger than her usual white wine, and took a sip. Glanced up at her reflection in the mirror behind the backbar, approved of her demeanor, and then stared off distantly. Her mind caught up in the day. She mentally shook her head, even the "suits" still got their butts reamed.  
  
As she had, by her own boss. She snorted, sipped her drink. Little weasle, he was annoyed with her because he didn't see her idea of the ad for the tire company in the same way she did. Worse yet, he was even more annoyed that she didn't want to let him climb up her skirt. The man was not her type. Actually at that time, no man was. She'd had enough of male egos to last her for the next eternity or so. She had no respect whatsoever for him, and hoped that soon, she'd be able to leave the design firm and start her own business. Small, take a few accounts, hopefully the clients who were faithful to her, would follow her when she left. And maybe even a few of the people who worked under her. Some of the fresh faced college grads who apprenticed under her.   
  
And who was she kidding? She was still the bad guy in the huge scheme of life. She wore the designer business suits, the sort that would cost the average working stiff a month's worth of wages. Hadn't she even lost a few friends when she'd moved up? She sighed, smoothed the grey silk skirt over her legs, and settled down.  
  
In all honesty? She had nothing but the highest respect for people who sweat for a living. She'd done it herself, waited tables, and other menial jobs to earn her way through college, sometimes working two jobs, and taking classes part time to make a go of it. A prestigious college no less, not everyone who came from the wrong side of the tracks could make it into the art college she had.  
  
But not everyone had her innate talent for design. She'd been told from an early age by her teachers that she had a gift and should never waste it.   
  
She'd busted her behind to get where she was, to be what she was. She'd worked for years to lose the Bronx in her speech, and in her mannorisms. She once again gazed at herself, her shoulder length, raven black hair pulled into a tidy French twist, her large deep blue eyes hidden behind the glasses that framed the face that according to her ex-fiance, the dog, she smirked, should have graced an art gallery, instead of gracing a commercial artist. So she had the face that belied her ancestry, the Black Irish. Even if she was firmly American, her great grandparents, on both sides had come over the big pond during the famine. She remembered her grandparents even spoke with a slight lilt eventhough they were as American born as she herself was.  
  
She preferred to wear glasses at work, more out of necessity, she'd told herself as she stared at her reflexion, but not really paying any real attention to it. Not as a shield as...She shook her head, slid her hand slowly toward the unopened cigarette pack as if it were a snake and would bite her if she didn't use extreme caution in the handling of it. She hated herself for giving into the urge to buy them. Had berated herself endlessly for giving into the low grade urge for nicotene considering she'd quit over six months back. She shrugged mentally, it'd been a bad day, she'd earned at least one backslide into a vice she'd fought like hell to break herself of.  
  
Her boss wasn't the only thing that was bothering her. She snarled, grabbed the pack, opened it up, lit a cigarette with the practiced ease of someone who'd smoked for years, took the first drag and felt that heavenly rush of nicotene she remembered took her down the road toward an addiction she neither wanted nor really needed. But, the hell with it. She actually quit due to her ex-fiance's badgering. It wasn't good for her health, it wasn't good for her reputation. Etc etc. Said the three day a week health club fanatic. She blew out the smoke in a long stream, tapped the cigarette ash into the ashtray and smiled a small smug smile. Yeah, well he could just rot in hell for all she cared. Which she didn't, especially since she'd caught him in HER bed no less, with the stereotypical blonde bimbo, and he'd used the stereotypical excuse, "Honey this was nothing! You don't understand." She also remembered throwing the 2 carat diamond ring back in his face, and his clothes out the window of her upperstory loft. Down into the wet street below. Amazing how fast a man would run naked after his Armani suit...And even more amazing was how fast the blonde had ran when she'd threatened to rip her peroxide hair out from its obviously dark roots. The least the asshole could have done was find someone less stereotypical to fuck around on her with. Although that wasn't the only thing that hurt, it truly hurt because it was so obviously a cheap slap at her.  
  
He'd used her to move up the ranks of the firm. She was a stepping stone to him. Almost an alliance, he'd often said they'd open up their own business, together. Run it as partners. Yeah, right. She'd run her own business and he could kiss her ass.   
  
She took another sip of her her drink, another drag and let her mind drift off again. Away from the troubling thoughts of the day, the annoyances. She came to a decision, she'd give her notice at the firm, give a month's notice. She had plenty of savings, even if she'd kiss her 401 k, and her stockshares goodbye, as well as the other benifits she received...And she'd find herself a nice little loft on the upper east side, and start her own firm. Basically give the finger to Mr Thomas of Thomas Thomas and Wilford...Etc. And she'd make her mark in her own way. It wouldn't be easy, it would be a long hard road, but her resume, and her portfolio more than spoke for itself. After all, she held some of the largest accounts the firm had. She'd maybe manage to cajol them away for TTandW.  
  
And Randy, her ex-fiance could just well take his little bimbo and stuff it, for all she cared. She hadn't realized she was sneering at the mirror, nor had she realized she had stamped out the first cigarette and had automatically lit a second...  
  
"Those things'll kill ya you know."   
  
She sent a sideways glance toward the source of the soft voice, and mentally rolled her eyes. "I beg your pardon?" What business was it of his anyway? She blew out a long stream of smoke just to spite him. Great, she thought as he looked a bit straighter at her, she did NOT need this. Tall, dark, handsome, and arrogant. Nevermind the shockingly light blue eyes, that gazed out at her steadily from behind shaggy silvery-white bangs from a face that had to be illegally young for such an attitude.   
  
He shrugged and sent a more direct look at her, he'd already more or less sized her up from where he'd sat in a darker booth, having a quiet conversation with his partner in drinking, and crime. Or not crime so much, but in mayhem, he mentally corrected. He reached out and tapped a finger on her pack of cigarettes. "Those. Bad for you. But...You probably already knew that." He turned away, dismissing her. And smirked to himself, as he heard the soft growl of annoyance from the woman.   
  
She'd interested him the minute she'd walked in, looking as out of place as a whore at a priest's convention. Miss Business suit, he'd tagged her. Upper middle class, if not upper class, so far out of his league it was unreal. She'd more suit his stuffily annoying twin he was sure, but that didn't stop him from making the bet with the aforementioned sibling that he'd at least have her phone number by the time she walked out the door. He had twenty bucks, and a more than slight attraction riding on her arrogant shoulders. And he usually got what he wanted. So he basically ignored her. Women were all the same, didn't matter what class they were, or which side of the tracks they hailed from, they all hated being ignored.  
  
She tamped out the cigarette and looked at the mirror, watching him, a bit warily. She chose to ignore him, as she saw his eyes raise up and meet hers. Damn! Usually she was much more cautious in her studies of people. And she could read them like a book, well except for her ex, which reminded her she was currently mad at the entire male race at the moment. She quietly sipped her drink, then she turned and sent a level look at the man, "Look, Mr..."  
  
The grin was quick, and somewhat unsettling she realized, making the forebiddingly arrogant face turn more boyish, and if anything it also showed the rogueish side of his nature, putting her on instant guard as it was far too satisfied.   
  
"No need for Mr. The name's Dante. And you'd be?"  
  
She snorted, "I'd be Not Interested, get the picture?" She quirked an eyebrow at him meaningfully, as she faced him.  
  
"Nice to meet you, Miss Not Interested. Lovely name."   
  
He had the gall to smirk, she gritted her teeth, just what she needed, a wolfish male, she rolled her eyes, not bothering to hide the fact, and said, "Look, I am not interested in knowing you by first name basis or any other at the moment. I'd rather be alone, IF you don't mind?"  
  
"Well, I do...But suit yourself, this one's on me though." He tapped her glass, and sent her a wink, and a salute. But didn't move away. He felt her tension as palpable as a slap. "So, I wonder, what's a nice girl like you doing in a dive like this?"   
  
She laughed, "You're kidding right? That's gotta be the oldest line in the book, and the cheesiest." She turned toward him, the smile still on her face, momentarily charmed by his completely innocent look not realizing she'd let the Bronx slip back into her voice. She shook her head and chuckled, "Thanks, I needed the laugh. But, really, all I want is to have a nice quiet drink. I appreciate you buying this for me," she indicated the fresh drink in front of her, "But by no means does this imply I'm interested in you for any reason. So scoot along back to your...Friend or whatever, and I'll just forget you made a complete ass of yourself." She basically shooed him with her hands.  
  
He raised his eyebrows, and looked at her, for one her manner of speech about floored him, little miss sophisticate wasn't so sophisticated after all, and, her laugh well, it just made a very pretty face that much more interesting. He caught himself wondering what she hid under that very proper suit, and that even more proper attitude. "How'd you know...Nevermind." He shook his head, and chuckled, never underestimate a female, he knew this. But winked outrageously at her, "At least I got a smile out of you. Anyway..." He turned away, and dismissed her again, but curiosity drove him to ask, "I heard a bit of the lower side in your voice, but you sound like Harvard."  
  
"I went to Harvard for my graduate degree." She shrugged, "And the rest? Well...It's none of your business is it?" This time she dropped the pretense of politeness, and the amusement fled, she sent him a cold look. Picked up the drink, and finished it off in one gulp, then slid off the barstool with a model's grace. Walked by him, turned and whispered in his ear, with a purr, "Oh and how much did you bet? Hope it wasn't too much, because you lost." She patted his cheek patronizingly and walked with all the pride of a runway model in Paris toward the door.  
  
"Wait! How'd you know...?" Dante was a bit bemused.  
  
She turned and sent a siren's smile toward him, strutted gracefully back toward him, looked him dead in the eye, and said with the slight lilt of her grandparents, "For one, I'm Irish. For another, I'm in advertising. We invented bullshit. See ya around..." She winked at him and strutted out the lounge. Feeling one hell of a lot better. 


End file.
